


more is always better

by JBS_Forever



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Humor, Humor With Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:41:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24860989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JBS_Forever/pseuds/JBS_Forever
Summary: On the cover is a picture of Spider-Man and Tony walking down the street, with the words, “Tony Stark hid secret child!” scrawled across in big, block letters.“So what?” Peter says, thumbing through it. “It's just a tabloid. No one really believes these things.”But both MJ and Ned are quiet now, and Ned's ears are rapidly changing colors, MJ finds her book suddenly fascinating.Peter looks between them and says, insisting, “Tell me people don't believe this.”- - -(In which a rumor spreads that Spider-Man is secretly Tony Stark's son and none of the adults in Peter's life will do anything about it because they're all terrible human beings.)
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 76
Kudos: 1018





	more is always better

**Author's Note:**

> (Russian translation now available here: [ https://ficbook.net/readfic/9613788 ](https://ficbook.net/readfic/9613788/))  
>   
> Alternatively titled "why did I write this?: an autobiography" and based loosely on [this wonderful piece of art](https://rhymewithrachel.tumblr.com/post/165211902888/theres-a-special-place-in-my-heart-for-tabloids) because I thought it was funny <3  
> .

The rumor comes to life one normal, Wednesday afternoon. Peter is stumbling half-asleep into the cafeteria for lunch, his fingers sticking to the bottom of his tray in the tell-tale way he knows will mean pieces of plastic will be coming off when he lets go, and Ned spots him from a table near the back of the room and turns bright red.

“What?” Peter asks as he sits down, to which Ned, all dignified grace, top of their class in English, says, “Um.”

At his side, MJ snorts. “Smooth,” she replies, because it really is embarrassing to them both how terrible Ned is at lying. And that’s from Peter, who once told May a criminal with a specific hatred for vases – not his finest lie, he'll admit – destroyed her one hundred dollar Orrefors instead of confessing he knocked it over in the middle of the night.

“It's nothing!” Ned insists, all wide-eyed and flailing arms, the perfect epitome of someone who is most definitely not telling the truth. He clears his throat in the painfully sad way Peter recognizes as his attempt at changing the subject. “Uh,” he tries, “So, how about that test in math? Hard test. Math is hard.”

“Right,” Peter says, and flicks his gaze to MJ, who shrugs before pulling out a crumpled magazine from her backpack and sliding it Peter's way. 

At Ned’s horrified look, she says, “He's gonna see it eventually.”

It's nothing worth worrying about – or doing whatever complicated set of expressions Ned is making with his face. It's some cheap, trashy tabloid, the kind sold near front registers in supermarkets. On the cover is a picture of Spider-Man and Tony walking down the street together from the day they stopped a massive bank robbery and Tony had taken Peter afterward to get celebratory cheeseburgers. “Great victories deserve great food, kid,” Tony had proclaimed. Peter is holding the plastic Iron Man toy that came with their meal. The headline screams, “ _Tony Stark hid secret child!_ ” with an arrow pointing toward Peter and a line of text declaring, “ _Son of Iron Man._ ”

“So what?” Peter says, thumbing through it. “It's just a tabloid. No one really believes these things.”

But both MJ and Ned are quiet now, and Ned's ears are rapidly changing colors, MJ finds her book suddenly fascinating.

Peter looks between them and says, insisting, “Tell me people don't believe this.”

“ _Um,_ ” Ned repeats, and doesn’t go on. The silence strings between them all, ticking by with the cheap clock stuck on the wall, and god, sometimes Peter really wishes he had other friends. 

“Don’t make me do it,” he says with a sigh, “I’m tired.” Still, neither of them fess up, so one patented, brooding, official Parker stare-down later, it’s Ned who finally caves, because he always does, the nice person he is, and pulls up the trending page on Twitter to show Peter.

“You know Twitter though,” Ned says, as if an apology on its own, the number of tweets with the hashtag “IronDad” rising as they watch. A multitude of cartoon drawings of Spider-Man and Iron Man flood the screen where people typing in all caps exclaim things like, _I KNEW IT!_ and, _THIS IS THE CUTEST THING I HAVE EVER SEEN IN MY LIFEEE_. _SOMEONE MURDER ME._ “Give it a couple days and it’ll go away for sure. Definitely.”

“Yeah,” Peter says with a shrug. Whatever. It’s the internet. They’ll find something more interesting by morning. “All right,” he says, and goes back to eating his lunch.

\- - -

**_Tony Stark hid secret son from the world?_ **

_By Andrew Williams, posted 1:35pm_

_Tony Stark clearly has a special bond with Spider-Man – at least, that's what it seems from a recent collection of photographs making their way through the internet. But is there more?_

_The pics, which depict Stark and Spider-Man strolling down a New York City street while they laugh and munch on food, hit the web yesterday after an anonymous photographer sold them to TMZ. Shortly after, rumors began to swirl that the friendly relationship between the pair might be something more paternal. Is Tony Stark actually Spider-Man's dad?_

_According to a source close to Colonel James Rhodes, the answer is leaning toward yes._

“ _Colonel Rhodes knows them both professionally and personally,” the source tells us. “And we know Spider-Man is young and that Tony has been giving him lessons and making tech for him. I think we all can see there's something going on there. Colonel Rhodes says it's not his place to comment on Tony's personal matters but that there's definitely 'more than meets the eye' and that he thinks Tony will make a great dad one day.”_

_The alleged father-son relationship has been making a splash all over social media, raising dozens of questions. Did Stark hide his fatherhood from the press all these years? Did Spider-Man know Stark was his dad? And who is the mother?_

_We reached out to Stark's reps for comment but didn't hear back by the time of posting. Spider-Man has no rep._

_Looks like we'll have to keep wondering until one of them comes forward and confirms the rumors. But if you ask us, we say Stark has a lot of lost time to make up for._

_Congratulations – it's a boy!_

\- - -

One thing Peter knows for sure is this: Ned may be bad at it, but he’s a filthy liar.

Peter knows this because the rumors don’t die down at all, because during a rather boring, uneventful sweep of the city, he's stopped to give a little girl an autograph and her dad says, “Is it true what they're saying? That Tony Stark genetically engineered your DNA before you were born so he could create a superhero army of his own children?”

Startled, Peter draws a line straight through his name and off the edge of the pink notebook. “What?” he squawks, twisting to look at him. “I – _what?_ No!”

The man just shrugs. “I'm just saying, I wouldn't be surprised.”

On the news later, a hoard of paparazzi ambush Rhodey outside a skyrise in Manhattan and bombard him with requests to confirm Tony’s mysterious past. Men in baseball caps using their iPhone mics shove cameras in his face and rush out frantic cries of, “Tell us the truth, Colonel Rhodes! Give us something for the record! Is Tony Stark actually Spider-Man’s dad?” 

This is where Peter learns another thing – that Colonel James Rhodes is a terrible, terrible human being.

He and May are watching from the kitchen table, the sound on the TV cranked high as an honest-to-god _credible_ news station broadcasts Rhodey looking straight into the camera and responding, “It’s not my place to spill Tony’s secrets.”

May – loving, supportive, caring woman that she is – bursts into uncontrollable laughter while Peter hides his face in his hands.

“It’s not funny,” Peter whines. “People think this is real.” This morning, after a quick detour to stop a car-jacking on his way to school, the criminal Peter webbed to the sidewalk actually scowled at him and said, “Stark should have kept you a secret,” so it’s safe to say Peter isn’t having a good day. 

“It’s all right,” May says kindly. “It was a long time ago. Tony can’t be blamed.”

“May!” 

“Okay, okay, I'm sorry,” she says, placating and warm and not sorry at all. She slides another helping of mashed potatoes Peter’s way and taps her fork against the table. “You know,” she says seriously, “I'm a little disappointed in your mom.”

Peter peeks at her between his fingers. “Why?”

“For not telling me about her _steaming affair_ with billionaire Tony Stark. I wonder if your dad knew –”

“Okay,” Peter says. “Yup, okay, thanks for the help. Really glad you could be here.”

“He was a respectable man, but he could be a bit dense sometimes,” May continues, oblivious and uncaring to the sheer amount of horror she's instilling in Peter. He sinks further down in his seat in a desperate attempt to disappear off the face of the planet. “But maybe they had some kind of deal. You know how everyone has a list of celebrities they can have se–”

“Oh god,” Peter says, and because May is _still_ talking, does the only acceptable thing he can think of by snatching his mask from the couch with a well-placed web and jumping out the kitchen window.

\- - -

The forty-eight hours Ned guaranteed turn into seventy-two, into ninety-six. Peter calls Tony and he doesn’t answer. He calls Happy and Happy says, “Kid, if you don’t like rumors, get better at PR,” which is to say he offers zero helpful advice even though he’s basically Peter’s publicist at the best of times and his babysitter at the worst.

“Maybe he’s busy?” Ned offers, as he clicks his phone on and off again, growing flushed when they head toward the theater for decathlon practice. Peter sticks his own hands in his hoodie pocket to keep from throwing Ned’s phone in the trash. He really needs to chill with the compulsive article checking.

“Or maybe he likes watching me suffer,” Peter says, because they’ve been through a lot, he and Happy. From the serious to the wildly embarrassing. Peter once cried in the backseat of Happy's car after he accidentally kicked a dog mid-swing during a patrol. It doesn’t make sense why Happy won’t fix this now.

“What if he doesn’t know?” Ned asks. “What if he thinks it’s true and he doesn’t want to get involved?”

Peter twists his lips into a tight line. There’s no way Happy could be that stupid. There’s no way anyone who actually knows Peter could be that stupid. 

And yet, when he steps foot into the theater, it’s to Betty’s voice declaring, “I think it’s sweet. Iron Man and Spider-Man. The father and son superhero team.”

Peter spins around to go back into the hall, to leave the school and possibly never return, he hasn’t decided yet, but Ned catches him by the arm and pushes him forward. _Traitor_ , Peter fumes when Ned smiles at him, and stalks over to take a seat next to MJ.

It’s clear from the way everyone is leaning close together, the thrum of excitement buzzing quietly like Peter’s spider-sense along his spine, electric and sharp and itchy, that the conversation has been going on for a long time. This must be why Ned, flustered as he is, squishes in beside them, takes one look at their teammates, and says, before Peter can even think about stopping him, loud and in his best impersonation of confidence, “Tony Stark obviously isn’t Spider-Man’s dad. What a dumb rumor.”

Peter groans and lays his head down on the table.

“It makes sense,” says Sally, easy, bored, laid out somewhere along the edge of the stage where she’s taken up residency whenever they meet here. “How else do you explain how he got his powers? It’s genetic.”

“Iron Man doesn’t have powers though,” Cindy points out, diplomatic and in total opposition to the way Flash chimes in with a childish, “Yeah, and he’s lame. Spider-Man is way cooler. There’s no chance in hell he’s secretly Stark’s kid. It’s just some moron making stuff up for attention.” 

Under the table, Ned nudges Peter’s foot in rapid succession. _Look_ , Peter can practically hear him screaming, indicating his great victory of second-handedly getting Flash to agree with him. Peter rolls his eyes and lifts his head, and Flash takes this moment to glance at him, to nurse a sour look in his direction.

“Why do you look like hell warmed over?” he asks.

Ignoring him, Betty says, “Colonel Rhodes is the one who told everyone about Iron Man’s secret, not some random guy.” She shuffles around her books and from beneath a dictionary produces a copy of the _Daily Star_ , which she flips open and slides between them like this is a court case and she’s providing her evidence to a judge. _Your honor, I’d like to further ruin Peter Parker’s life._ “See, page 13. Colonel James Rhodes confirms there’s more than meets the eye.”

“You have to be kidding me,” Peter mutters, because seriously – what the hell?

Flash snatches the magazine up. “You’re all idiots,” he says. “This says a ‘source’ close to him gave them a quote. It’s bullshit. War Machine never said anything about Stark. Tabloids can make up whatever they want.”

“It’s Iron Patriot,” Cindy corrects, and plucks the magazine from Flash’s hand, scanning over the article with hard, calculating eyes. “I think he’s right though. Nowhere does this confirm Colonel Rhodes actually said any of this.”

“Oh my god,” Peter says, over top of Charles’, “Why do you even care, Flash? Is your Spider-Man crush so fragile it's gonna change just because Tony Stark is his dad?” 

Ned makes a sound like a dying whale and Peter kicks him in the shin. This is hardly new information. The terrible thing about Flash’s obsession with Spider-Man is that it has always been splayed out for everyone to see. In fan accounts, in near-constant praise during news segments in homeroom. At least half the Spider-Man portraits in art class belong to Flash, and another fourth were made under his dictating views and the-shades-are-all-wrong-moron attitude. But to hear it out loud, so blunt and crude, knocks a knee-jerk reaction of terror in Peter’s chest. If Flash ever knew his superhero crush was secretly Peter in disguise, the world might explode. 

“Hey, shut the fuck up, Charles,” Flash says.

“Language, Flash,” Mr. Harrington chides, appearing like magic behind his shoulder. “Spider-Man’s family issues are for him and his hopefully well-paid therapist to deal with. Let’s start practice, Michelle, yeah?” He moves around to the lectern, waiting while MJ gathers her things, and Peter thanks whatever force out there finally decided to end his misery. “‘Great idea, Mr. Harrington,’ I hear everyone say,” Mr. Harrington tacks on. “Yes, thank you, I thought so too.”

MJ trades places with him, dropping an armful of binders and textbooks in front of her. She looks at Peter, flat and expressionless, and pries free a piece of paper from a binder marked up in colorful highlighters. She says, “Today we’re gonna start with adoption laws.”

\- - -

“MJ,” Peter pleads, once he’s dragged her into an empty classroom, exhausted and crazed and sweating under his layers. “You don’t believe this now too, do you? MJ, please, tell me you haven’t been reading this stuff.”

“I’m not interested in low-class excuses for articles written by creepy men who stalk celebrities,” MJ says.

“Oh thank god –”

“But,” she interrupts, looking thoughtful. “If I were, I’d have to say it’s kind of fascinating. I’d have to say maybe Colonel Rhodes is right and there _is_ more than meets the eye. The evidence is all there, isn’t it?” And then she smiles that little smile of hers, a soft turn of the edges of her mouth that makes Peter’s legs weak, and disappears into the hallway.

\- - -

_Here’s Rhodey’s number._

That’s what Tony texts when the next article comes out, after Peter calls and gets his voicemail for the third time in a row. He’s at some conference in Bali or Dubai or Genoa, Happy finally admitted, but even he had hung up before Peter could whine his distress. 

“This is so not fair,” Peter complains to himself. Below, where he’s perched on the corner of a seven-story apartment complex, a man who calls himself The Unicorn (“trademarked!” he’d yelled when Peter first arrived, before promptly shooting a laser beam out of the horn on his head and destroying an entire deli) is being chased through the city by a squad of annoyed superheroes while Peter acts as surveillance. 

“I know,” Johnny agrees, tiptoeing along the railing of the roof, arms out in balance. Peter keeps a wrist turned toward him, ready to shoot a web if he falls, because even though Johnny can fly, technically, his stupidity knows no bounds. “That guy doesn’t even _look_ like a unicorn. Orange and green? I mean, come _on_. Is he colorblind?” 

“Don’t be mean to colorblind people,” Peter mutters. 

Johnny spins on the rail, listing dangerously to one side. Right as Peter gets ready to web him to the cement floor, he straightens again to ask, “Why not? They shouldn’t be trusted.”

Peter sighs. “ _You_ shouldn’t be trusted,” he says. “What if I’m colorblind? That’s rude. You don’t know.” And he doesn’t, actually, because to Johnny, Peter is just Spider-Man, just a nameless hero who Johnny asked upon their first time meeting to sign his rare collectible Spider-Man funko pop and then burst into flames. This, this breadth of unknowing in their loosely defined friendship, is a blessing for Peter. He gets to be just Spider-Man, no Peter involved, and Johnny might be bothersome, sure, but one of his greater qualities is that he respects Peter’s secret identity and has resorted to loudly settling himself into the superhero part of his life instead. 

It’s nice, usually, except for right now when Johnny plops down onto the roof and sits beside Peter and says, “Hey, I’m sorry to hear about your dad thing. That’s rough.”

Peter breathes out through his nose. He wonders if Johnny can feel the pure look of hatred he’s sending beneath his mask. He hopes he can. “Aren’t you supposed to be down there helping?” he asks.

“Probably,” Johnny allows. “But then I couldn’t be up here with my bestie.”

“We’re not besties,” Peter says without heat. “And Tony’s not my dad.”

Johnny nods, something like solemn. “I get it, man,” he says, all heartfelt sincerity and so sugary sweet Peter wonders if he's been taking acting classes again. The two lessons he attended before (see: was forced to take) were mostly useless anyway, except in cheesy interviews with pretty women who would have gawked and swooned regardless of if his PR training worked or not. “He wasn't there most of your life. Fuck that. He doesn't get to come back and play dad now.”

Peter blinks at him. “I'm in a nightmare,” he decides. “This is an actual living nightmare.”

“Can we discuss your daddy issues later?” comes Sam's voice through the comms. Somewhere in his connection an explosion roars, rattling the ground beneath them in aftershocks. It blows out the sound in Peter's mask for an agonizing second before Sam speaks again. “We're still in the middle of a fight here. Bad guy first. Therapy later.”

“I don't have –” Peter starts, but then Johnny is tipping over the side of the building and flaming to life, saluting Peter – smug, always so smug – as he disappears into the city like the asshole he is.

“I hate you,” Peter whispers, and dives after him.

\- - -

Later, on the phone with Rhodey’s voicemail, Peter tries hard not to say the same thing. It’s late, probably too late to be calling, and Peter is the kind of worn out that makes his voice shake like he’s working up to cry and he really shouldn’t be leaving a message when he’s like this, but he’s desperate and this whole thing is stupid and so he says, “Uh, Colonel Rhodes? It’s Peter. Parker. Um, Mr. Stark gave me your number. I was just – I was just calling to ask you about the rumors going around lately. The ones about Spider-Man? Uh, everyone keeps saying you’re giving them information and I saw you on the news and stuff and I – well, I was wondering if maybe we could talk? I don’t know if there’s something going on, but I think maybe you have the wrong idea with me and Mr. Stark. You know he’s not really my dad, right? I mean, you must know. I think there’s just been some confusion. Please call me back. Uh, it’s Peter. Parker. Okay, bye.”

\- - -

Rhodey does not, in fact, call Peter back. But after a series of videos surface on Tiktok showing him telling a group of paparazzi outside a Target that Tony “one hundred percent could have multiple kids somewhere he doesn’t know about and I wouldn’t be surprised,” he sends Peter a thumbs-up emoji. 

_Whyyyyy?_ Peter texts back, and watches the message switch to “read.” 

\- - -

Despite Ned’s impressive online campaign to divert the world’s attention away from Spider-Man and Tony Stark, Peter still hits the streets to patrol and hears an even more impressive range of middle school insults from criminals who have nothing better to do than rob old ladies at 3pm on a Thursday. One in particular, a regular Peter likes to call “Jack Skellington” because he dresses like someone who would absolutely lead a town of spirits into taking over Christmas, swipes a knife at Peter in front of a fancy BMW he just broke into and has the audacity to get mad when Peter tries to stop him.

“You know,” he says sharply, making jabbing motions at Peter with one hand while the other brandishes a car stereo. “I knew Stark was pathetic, just not pathetic enough to hide a superhero kid. Why does he even let you do this anyway? What a horrible dad.”

“He’s _not my dad_ ,” Peter snaps, but in the guy’s defense, it’s not the worst thing these lowlifes have said to him. Now, somehow, another rumor has started about the origins of Peter’s powers. An entire subreddit has been devoted to identifying the source of his abilities and with what regard they come from Tony and why that should discredit them. 

Peter is, rightfully so, a little annoyed. He didn’t build up an entire superhero rapport just for people to question his validity now because “if the suit’s doing all the work and he doesn’t really have powers, then Spider-Man is just a big fat pretender. Should he even really be a superhero?” 

“Disowning him already?” Jack Skellington snarls. “Wow. I think that speaks a lot about what kind of person he is.”

Peter gapes at him a long moment, words choked in frustration, a tight knit ball of anger tangled in his chest. Just – whatever. He lets out a high pitched noise of distress, since he’s got nothing coherent left to say except _screw this guy_ , then he webs Jack Skellington’s mouth shut, webs him to the car, and takes off into the sky. 

\- - -

To say Tony couldn't care less is like saying when Peter sent the entire basement of the compound up in flames it wasn’t _that_ bad. That day it took most of the fire department and three of Tony's suits to put it out, and when Tony finally calls now, Peter's halfway to deciding what else he might be able to catch on fire to cause a scene. The first time was an accident, a horrible story Tony tells all the freshman interns, but Peter has a habit of compartmentalizing anything that could be useful to him in the future, and yelling fire while he's watching his life burn might be the saving force he needs. 

“You're being a little dramatic, aren't you?” Tony asks over the line. “That's usually my area of expertise.”

Peter presses his face into his pillow, and through the blue cotton, warm and fresh from the laundry, whines, “I just don’t get why Colonel Rhodes is trying to sabotage me.” 

"Probably because it's funny,” Tony says, and barrels through Peter's annoyed, “Mr. Starkkk” with a patient and innocent, “What do you want me to say?” like it hasn't taken Peter six days to get a hold of him, like he hasn't actively been ignoring Peter's distressed midnight texts and scattered calls. “Rhodey's an adult. I don't own him.”

“Right, but that doesn’t mean you can’t do anything to correct him,” Peter says. “Like, I dunno, maybe tell someone I'm not your secret love child?”

“What, are you ashamed of me?” Tony retorts, all feigned shock and hurt, and yeah, okay, Peter is really starting to hate everyone in his life.

“Mr. Stark –”

Tony clicks his tongue. “As your newly appointed father, your words hurt me, kid. They hurt deep.”

“ _Mr. Stark_ ,” Peter nearly begs.

Tony doesn't laugh, but it's a near thing, one Peter hears in his tone when he says, “Just let it pass, kid. It's all part of being a celebrity.”

 _What a horrible life for them_ , Peter thinks, and says, “I never asked to be a celebrity.” 

“And I never asked to be your dad,” Tony responds, “But look where we are.”

“Ha-ha,” Peter mutters, and rolls over to stare at the ceiling, to press the back of his wrist against his eyes. If not for how he’s poised precariously on the edge of what is promising to be a fantastically dramatic mental breakdown, he might ask Tony how his trip is, might make small talk and polite sarcastic banter like they do. It’s not often anymore they just talk on the phone. They’re always working on something, saving someone, another project or experiment or schedule to keep, and Peter enjoys it, he enjoys their time together. It’s his six year old and sixteen year old’s self dream come to life, an opportunity presented in a shiny package of unlimited tech and wisdom from Earth’s greatest defender himself. 

“Oops, gotta go,” Tony says, to the tune of sirens blaring distantly in the background, a roar of voices shouting things in a language Peter can’t understand. “Looks like that necklace was valuable after all.”

“What –”

“Bye, kid,” Tony says, hanging up, and Peter just lays there for a long moment, deciding that everyone must be against him because this one hundred percent sucks. He dumps his phone onto the floor and it clatters against the bottom of his nightstand, hits with a loud enough bang that through the walls May calls out to him, asking if he’s all right.

“No,” Peter calls back. “My life is over.” 

“Okay,” May yells to him, deep enough in the apartment she sounds far away. “Want some pancakes?”

\- - -

As it turns out, Peter’s last hope of fixing any of this, in the form of one Miss Pepper Potts, is completely useless too.

During a big press conference where Stark Industries is announcing some expanded renewable energy project, Pepper opens the floor to the dozens of reporters sat neatly in rows of chairs in front of the stage. She’s all prim and proper, manicured nails and hair pulled back into a neat bun, the respectable woman Peter knows.

“Next question,” she says, and points at a man off-camera. Peter’s busy downing his pancakes in rivers of maple syrup, so he almost misses the feedback of a mic too close to a speaker, almost misses the way the man clears his throat, shy, but not too sky to ask, “Can you comment on the recent affairs of Tony Stark? In regards to his relationship with Spider-Man.”

Peter snaps his head up toward the TV.

“Right,” Pepper says, formal and polite, just a biting hint of the same irritation Peter hears from her when Tony’s broken another one of her ceramic plates. “Well, let’s just say Tony’s past is a mystery to me. All right, next question.”

Peter whispers, “Oh my god,” the same time May says, “What a power move.”

He gapes at her, wide-eyed and appalled, but she’s already turning off the TV, chuckling as she takes her plate to the sink, assuring him, “It can only lose steam from here,” and ruffling his hair on the way out. 

\- -

So desperate times call for desperate measures, but Peter’s spectacular, extensive list of superhero contacts boils down to this: Tony Stark (who doesn’t answer his phone half the time anyway), Johnny Storm (who texts way too much but passed his information on to Sue and Dr. Reeds, which was both flattering and embarrassing), Ben Grimm (who may have given Peter a fake number), Matt Murdock (who definitely gave Peter a fake number), Sam Wilson (who told Peter if he ever called for anything other than an emergency he’d personally see to his death), and Happy Hogan (a superhero by proxy).

Because five of the eight don’t know Peter’s real identity, and one of the other two actually available will murder him, it’s Happy, unfortunately for Happy, who Peter ends up sending multiple SOS signals out to, who shows up at the restaurant Peter gave directions for and finds him in a dark booth in the back, hood pulled over his head, chin resting on arms folded along the table. 

“Peter,” he says with an irritated huff of a sigh once Peter’s explained that he’s not in danger and just likes the pizza here, “I thought you were dying.”

“I _am_ dying,” Peter argues. “The prices here are crazy. You saw Ms. Potts on the news, didn’t you?” 

“Of course I did,” Happy says, sounding unconcerned, and when Peter slides him a paper menu, he waves him off and checks his watch. “I’m not staying.”

“You thought I was dying and you’re not staying?” Peter asks. A little rude, but okay. He can work through it.

Happy rolls his eyes. “You’re clearly not dying.”

“Not on the outside, but ...” Peter says, trailing off. 

He thinks about how far Happy must have come to check on him and feels a little guilty. Being the boy who cried wolf doesn’t make him proud, but it’s not like Happy has been a saint either.

“Did you call me here just to complain about those stupid rumors?”

Sulking, Peter murmurs, “No,” then adds, “Okay, yes. But come on –”

“Jesus Christ,” Happy says, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sounds tired, and Peter deflates, bows his head and starts picking at the frayed top of his menu so Happy won’t see the color rushing to his face. “I’m too old for this.”

“You’re not that old,” Peter says weakly. It can’t hurt to try to get on his good side, can it? “It’s just – these rumors are stupid. Someone stopped me in the middle of a mugging the other day to ask if Mr. Stark combined a human and spider embryo to make me. I mean, what the hell does that even mean?”

Happy pulls the menu away from him and flips it around to read. In no universe did Peter imagine this scenario going smoothly. There’s a loop of excuses on play in his head, a few practiced speeches and one hard to resist outcome where he just breaks down and cries all over his fifteen dollar slice of pizza, which will no doubt end up with an uncomfortable Happy and pure mortification on Peter’s end. But honestly, what else can he do?

“It means people need to get more creative.” Happy flags the waiter down. He orders an entire pizza – extra pepperoni, the way Peter likes it, and stays even after they bring it to the table. He says, “All right, look, I’ll talk to Tony about it. But I swear, if you start crying right now, I’m leaving you with the bill.”

“‘m not crying,” Peter says, and stuffs garlic dusted crust into his mouth to prove it, even though he really, really wants to. He can’t afford this meal though, so he vows to hold himself together until after Happy has paid. It’s a fair compromise, he decides, and Happy must think the same.

An hour later, they’re parting ways outside the restaurant, standing in the chilly, evening air. Happy’s car is parked right out front, a feat of its own, and Peter’s only a block away from the subway. 

“You sure you don’t want a ride?” Happy asks, but six slices of pizza have heightened Peter’s guilt complex and bullied him into saying no. They’ve spent the better part of a year building up what started as a complicated relationship, poking cracks to see where they fracture. Peter’s not interested in knowing how far he can stretch this until it breaks. 

He shakes his head and rubs warmth back into his arms. “I’m good,” he says, throwing a sloppy salute Happy’s way, and races off to catch his train. 

In the morning, following the food-included coma he fell into right as he got home, he feels better somehow. The news is playing quietly in the living room, but nowhere does Peter hear talk about Spider-Man. It’s a coincidence, he’s sure. Happy isn’t a miracle worker and rumors don’t go away just because you want them to. But it’s a nice break, nevertheless, and Peter didn’t know how much he needed one until now.

He gets dressed for school and eats breakfast. He clears away dishes and May wishes him a good day. He goes outside and the sun is gleaming and is that soft kind of warm he feels seeping into his shirt, and he’s most of the way to the subway and then –

And then how does he explain it? The feeling, the panic-induced sting at the back of his skull that’s not his spider-sense but not something he was born with either. Not something he was ever taught but something that was learned through encounters of danger instead, fused into his every bone, into his DNA. 

He stumbles with it and looks around for the source, and there it is – there _she_ is. A little girl, no more than three, toddling out into the middle of a busy intersection. 

The noise swells until Peter can’t think straight, until his vision is dotting into pinpricks, until his feet urge him forward, and he goes, blind, fueled by adrenaline and the fear of what will happen if he doesn’t make it in time, and he snatches the little girl up into his arms and turns to the cars screeching toward them and says, “Shit.”

\- - -

He remembers nothing of the ride to the hospital or the countless tests that follow. When he opens his eyes, it’s to a pure white ceiling, a square of harsh lights that make his head pound. He’s visited the children's ward in the hospital enough times as Spider-Man to know right away where he is, but the thrum of confusion sparks a second of anxiety before he spots the person sitting on the small couch by the window and the feeling turns to horror.

“Oh god,” he croaks. 

“Nope,” Tony says. “But I’m flattered.”

Peter closes his eyes again. It takes two times for him to work his jaw against the cotton feeling in his mouth, and even then his teeth are sticky and his tongue hurts when he says, “I didn’t know you were back.” It’s not the best thing to point out right now, but his brain is still struggling to catch up, still protesting in aches that throb in time with the beeps of the machine somewhere next to him.

“Got back this morning,” Tony tells him. “Just in time for the big show. How’s your head?”

“Hurts a little,” Peter says, hoarse, and cracks open his eyes. The first thing he sees is there’s an IV in the crook of his left arm, taped into place and running up to a clear bag, and all at once, the fog in his head clears, shifting back to dread. IVs aren’t good. IVs mean – “Oh no. My blood. Did – did they take my blood?”

Tony says, “It’s a hospital. That’s kind of what they do.”

“I – I have weird blood,” Peter fumbles to explain, lifting himself on his elbows and getting his first clear look at Tony. He’s in jeans and a blazer and he probably just stepped off a plane, judging by his outfit choice and the disarray of his hair. But he’s here, and he’s got an eyebrow raised and he doesn’t look bothered at all by the way Peter stutters out, “They’re gonna know I’m not normal if they see it. We have to –”

“I already dealt with it.”

Peter pauses, open mouthed and confused. “You did? You – you knew?”

“Yeah,” Tony says, simple, like they’re talking about whether it’s going to rain tomorrow and not whether or not Peter’s entire life could be destroyed by an underpaid nurse who decides to play detective. “You made me look at a sample of your blood before. When you were fanboying over the new microscopes in the lab. You literally took a picture of it and emailed it to me. How hard did you hit your head? Should I call a specialist?”

“Oh,” Peter says, awkward with relief. It must have been a pretty hard fall then. “Sorry," he mumbles, and finds the remote for his bed, holds the up arrow until he’s propped at a better elevation, leaned back against his pillows instead of laying out flat. More upright, the pain vibrating along his skull seems to ease, and he glances around the room, surprised there’s no sign of his aunt. “Where’s May?” he asks. 

Tony stands, stretching out his arms, and Peter wonders how long he’s been here. He doesn’t know what time it is or even if it’s still the same day. The shades are pulled across the window in the room, blocking the outside world. 

“Happy went to pick her up,” Tony says, settling into the chair next to Peter’s bed. “Don’t know if you heard, but there was a huge accident near your place. Six car pile up. Knocked out all the cell service within an eight-block radius so no one could reach her. Hey, did you know Happy is one of your emergency contacts? _Happy_. Happy Hogan,” he stresses. “Were you aware of this little fact?”

“Um, yeah,” Peter says. “May put him on there. She thought it would be a good idea. Is – is everyone okay? The little girl? Is she okay?”

“Everyone's fine,” Tony assures, "Some cuts and scrapes. You got the worst of it." Peter recognizes that mischievous look growing, that glint in his eye. He knows it’s coming. He can feel it. “I'm just surprised I wasn't called, you know? Seeing as I’m your new-found father and all. I had to come in with Happy of all people. Really thought I’d be higher on this list. You know, because of the dad thing.”

There it is. What’s more surprising, though, is the way Peter goes to respond and his throat clamps down on him, strangling his words, pushing out emotions instead.

Oh god. Here he goes.

There’s nothing compared to the intense moment of shame when he feels tears welling. Peter has gone damp eyed in front of Tony an embarrassing amount of times since they've known each other, and while Tony has always been kind enough to turn a blind eye, Peter doesn't want to give him any incentive now to change his mind. 

It's made a hundred times worse when, as Peter covers his face with his hands, Tony says, “You all right? You want me to get someone?”

“ _No_ ,” Peter rushes out. “No. I'm fine. It's just – stupid.” Because it is, really. He's sitting in a hospital bed crying all because some tabloids think Tony is his dad. How pathetic can he get? 

“Ah,” Tony says slowly. “I'm feeling a change in the air. Weather shifting. Cold front coming in.” He pauses a dramatic moment, long enough for Peter to roll his eyes. “Are we about to have a heart-to-heart? That's what's happening, isn't it? My keen dad senses say yes.”

Peter drags his hands through his hair. “Mr. Stark, it's not funny,” he says miserably, then adds, “I mean, it's a little funny, but not really because it's happening to _me._ ”

Tony hums in the back of his throat. “Kid, you're part of the rumor mill all the time. Last I heard, you were antagonizing old ladies and pigeons in the park. You're The Daily Bugle's poster child.”

“Yeah, but that's _different_. It's not –” Peter flounders a moment, his throat swelling, and begs himself not to resort to a blubbering mess while he still has some dignity left. It's with a serious amount of regret he meets Tony's look and watches his entire face soften, expression balancing on the razor edge of concern and confusion.

“Are you actually upset about this?” Tony asks, “For real. Level with me here,” and Peter's cheeks go red.

Sometimes, during those late nights in the lab, when both of them are boneless and carefree with exhaustion, the concrete mask Tony has molded for himself cracks along the edges and lets Peter look underneath. It's not as if Tony is entirely stone, no matter how hard he tries. He's filled with holes, light shining through, brilliant shades of red and gold and everything that has ever meant anything. Peter isn't ashamed of Tony, and he's not ashamed of people thinking Tony is his dad. It's just – 

It’s just that Peter already has a dad. It's just that Peter tries so hard not to forget those years when he was a kid, barbecues in the backyard and socked feet sliding on the kitchen tile as they danced for hours to songs on the radio. Little by little, every day, those fragile memories start to blur and dull around the edges, and he's not ashamed, he's just trying to hold onto something he barely has a grip of anymore. He's just so, so scared of losing what he can't get back.

And – oh. Looks like he's actually upset about this after all.

He spills this to Tony – embarrassed and hurried and way too weepy. They must have him on drugs – and Tony, listening intently, lips pressed together, nods and says, “Okay. Okay, I'll take care of it.”

Peter frowns. “You're not mad?”

“Mad?” Tony repeats, making a dismissive move with his hand. Rarely is he ever outright sentimental, but Peter is becoming well versed in the changing tones of his words, the way he drops semitones the more important something is. He speaks low now, careful, swift. “Kid, I don't need a tabloid to tell me you're special. I knew it the second you walked into your apartment with that stupid look on your face.”

“Hey –!” Peter protests.

“And anyway, I'm just trying to be better than my old man was,” Tony continues. “So if it means getting some journalists fired, then so be it. Easy peasy. I can do that in my sleep, no problem. You say the word and it’s done.”

Peter swallows hard and rubs at his eyes. It’s all the little things that are erased from his past, that he can’t get back, but it’s all the new little things too. Like Tony in the lab, Tony at his bedside, Tony listening and understanding. Peter was seven when Iron Man came to life and six when his parents went from life and never once did he imagine he’d grow up to become a superhero like the one he relied so heavily on to help him through his grief. Never once did he think the wishes he made on shooting stars, on the trails Tony left behind in the night sky when he flew by, would ever come true. But they are, one by one. Peter's still here, holding onto whatever he can keep, and Tony is still here too and that means more than he can imagine.

And he doesn't say any of this, of course, because that would be eloquent and graceful and he’s a snotty, concussed mess. Instead, in another decision he'll probably regret later, he just says, “Did you know people think you're trying to raise an army of superhero kids to take over the world?”

Tony snorts out a laugh and leans back in his chair. “I should have thought of that. Would have saved me a lot of time.”

“Maybe the next kid,” Peter suggests, and smiles when Tony says, “I’ll get the radiation ready.”

\- - -

Two days later, Rhodey finally texts Peter back with an article from the New York Times. " _Inside Colonel James Rhodes’ secret love affair_ ,” it reads, and another, from the Daily Star, that says, _“Colonel James Rhodes – was he cheating on Black Widow with the Falcon? Insiders speak out!”_

 _Well played_ , Rhodey texts, and Peter grins, hovers over the keyboard for a deciding moment, and messages back a thumbs-up emoji.

\- - -

(And the thing is this: Rhodey may be a terrible person, but he’s not _that_ terrible. He saw what was really happening before this all started, how the rumors about Spider-Man diverged from fun and silly and into his secret identity. How people had gotten close to actually figuring out who Peter was. Rhodey knew what that meant, so he did what he’d learned best from his years of friendship with Tony – he created a distraction. He sent the rumors a different way.

And, well, if Peter never knows that, all the better. It's not a stress he needs when he has adults to take care of it.

But the next rumor Rhodey inflates? That one’s fair game.)

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> [And here's my tumblr if you want to hang out](https://jbsforever.tumblr.com/)   
> 


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